Crashes
by ProneToWander
Summary: A collection of one-shots exploring Steve's reliance on adrenaline and the responses of his ohana, who know him well by now. (No slash.)
1. Kevlar

A/N: A collection of one-shots in answer to this prompt I came across online (by kristen999): "After the adrenaline rush is over, even willpower can't keep Steve from crashing."

This prompt pings my story brain for multiple reasons. For one, H5-0 is not the type of show to explore aftermaths yet is constantly placing characters in situations that would create extreme physical or emotional fallout. Especially for Steve, whose warrior soul is my favorite, and who brings me to my second reason: his ability to suppress physical damage and keep on doing what needs to be done intrigues me to no end. I searched for responses to this prompt because there is so much to explore in it and found almost nothing. I guess I'll have to write what I wanted only to read. Oh—and I don't consider this a true h/c fic, but since the prompt was categorized that way, that's how I'm going to tag it.

I have no idea how many of these I'll write. Each piece will be self-contained, no cliffhangers (if I do a two-parter, which I don't anticipate, I won't post part 1 until part 2 is finished). Episode tags might happen. Mission details will be minimum: post-adrenaline equals post-mission. Ultimately this is a piece of writing for myself, to explore the fascinating relationship between Steve McGarrett and adrenaline (as well as the way his ohana responds), but I decided to toss my scribbling into the void in case there's someone else out there who wishes a fic like this existed. :)

Crashes

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1\. Kevlar

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"I think he got hit." Kono's voice is one shade paler than nonchalant.

Chin swivels toward their boss. McGarrett stands a hundred yards off, gesturing as he talks to two HPD officers, giving them instructions as the suspect is pushed into a squad car. The psycho has finally stopped trying to kick his way to freedom. The car door shuts, and McGarrett nods and ambles off toward Danny, who's speaking with another officer.

"What makes you say that?" Chin says.

"I had line of sight when he ran out of the warehouse. He didn't fall, but he stumbled pretty bad, looked like impact to me."

Chin nods. "You're probably right. No blood, though, that I can see."

"So … now?" Kono hooks a thumb in the back pocket of her jeans.

"Not yet."

She rolls her eyes.

"You can try it, cuz, but you know he'll shrug you off until the scene is processed."

Now a sigh. "I know."

"Stick to the routine."

They keep one eye on the boss while they work the scene of the shooting. An hour later, forensics is taking over and the EMTs are long gone. The crackling energy is dissipating; they can all feel it. Kono crosses the weedy field and enters the warehouse, where McGarrett is pacing in a corner, barking into his phone at—well, could be anyone from the governor on down. He shoves it back into his pocket and keeps pacing, his face a field of thoughtful furrows.

Okay, Kono thinks, not yet.

She fakes busyness for a few minutes, while his legs slow, then seem to grow invisible weights. Then stop. He stands for a few seconds. Checks his surroundings, and Kono ducks her head, looking busier than ever. Then he shuffles to a wall and braces his hand against it, head drooping between his shoulders. His chest heaves once, a breath that hurts, a sudden awareness in his body that things aren't quite right.

There it is. Kono walks over to him.

"Hey, boss."

He lifts his head, eyebrows raised, asking what she needs.

"Would you mind looking at something for me?"

"What've you got?" He's walking beside her already, strides firm again, and for a second she thinks this isn't going to work, she's made her move too soon, he's going to discover the bluff…

After four long strides, his next falters.

"Oh." The word is startled rather than pained.

One leg buckles, and he goes down on a knee, looking surprised and then livid, that his body would dare disobey orders like this. His left arm enwraps his right ribs.

"You okay?" Kono says, because they have to start here. Every time.

"Yeah, fine." Maybe his response will change if he ever loses a limb or something, but she doubts it. He's on his feet in a moment, willpower digging in between his brows. Then he's down on the knee again.

"What's wrong?"

"I think maybe I …"

Got hit? She doesn't say it. She doesn't roll her eyes. This is what she and Chin do for him, balancing the outraged whirlwind of words that is Danny Williams.

Because whether it's the legacy of SEAL training or the physical injuries he's already endured in his lifetime or simply the essence of the man, they have all (except Danny) learned McGarrett doesn't do this out of stubbornness. He's not lying when he says he's okay. He simply defines the word differently than most people (normal people, Danny would say) define it.

"I'm good." He grins up at her. "Kevlar."

"Uh-huh." Kono offers him a hand up.

He moves to take it, then slumps to both knees. Paling. Feeling it now, the full day of foot chases and punches to the face and a bullet caught in his vest that nonetheless must have cracked a rib or two. Fading adrenaline sends tremors down his arms, into his hands, which he clenches to hide the shaking. Kono kneels beside him, sets her hand on his back, and he leans into it. She wonders if he knows he's doing that.

"You need to get checked out," Kono says. "Just in case."

"It's only a rib, Kono. I'm fine."

"If it punctures a vital organ and you end up in the hospital for a week, you'll have Danny to deal with."

He huffs. "Not worth it."

"Really not."

"Okay, yeah, I'll get checked out. To spare Danny's feelings."

At the humor in his voice, she lets her smile surface. "Like considerate partners do."

"Will you pass that along to him please?" He matches her grin.

Across the warehouse, Chin is watching. His eyes meet his cousin's, and he smiles too.

Kono walks with her boss toward the one remaining paramedic on the scene and wonders if he saw Chin's smile. If he knows about this unspoken thing they do for him, without questions letting him ride the adrenaline as far as it will carry him. Given his people-reading skills, he's probably noticed. What he likely hasn't noticed (or he'd fight them on it) is the net they've made of their presence, to catch him when he finally crashes to the ground.

Stick to the routine. It works every time.

"Wait, Kono, what did you want me to see?"


	2. Spin

A/N: This installment comes about for two reasons: first, of course, I had to write Danny next. May I just say that this character doesn't allow writing from a narrative distance; he insisted I be in his head, which obliterated any attempts on my part at word economy. Sheesh, this guy can talk. And think. And emote. A lot.

Second, I don't want to lose the fact that while Steve does sometimes lose track of his own limits and does frequently push on past what most people can, he's also not stupid. With his training and his experiences, he's tuned in to his body in ways most of us are not. And I figure he has methods of dealing that the show doesn't let us see, but have to be there for him to keep functioning. Now that I've decided to incorporate this, it'll be interesting to see how it plays into situations.

The post-adrenaline fun is only beginning. ;)

Also, many thanks for the encouraging reviews! If you have a specific scenario you'd like to see that fits my theme, feel free to suggest it. (Just please, no calls for whump. There's more than enough of that out there already, and that's not what I'm trying to write here.)

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2\. Spin

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He's about to lose another Camaro, and this one won't be to a bullet spray or arson, this one will be to Steve McGarrett's inability to see the future, a thing Danny can't logically blame him for but when a guy acts omnipotent sometimes you start believing he might _be_ omnipotent and then something like this happens—

Words spurt through Danny's mind faster than they do from his mouth (which is saying something) and so of course he's able to have a full coherent furious thought directed at Steve in the heartbeat of time it takes the suspect's red pickup truck to emerge in front of them from an alley while tall, empty industrial buildings loom on either side of the car. Too close. On every side.

No way Steve super-SEAL-steers his way out of this.

Danny braces, tries not to brace: tension will only make the whiplash worse, assuming he's not dead in the next—

Squeal of tires. Whirl of surroundings out the windshield. The Camaro does an almost 180-degree spin. In New Jersey and other states with the sense to have winter, this would be an expert "donut." But there's no ice under these tires, only a crazy man at the wheel who just steered the driver's side _toward_ the pickup truck, and—

 _Crunch_.

And they're dead. They have to be. Grace and Charlie are fatherless.

He shakes his head and yeah, his neck is aching. Stiff. His shoulder was jarred into the door and now it's throbbing. He blinks. Clear vision, only mild headache.

The sound of a door handle being pulled, a door opening, and Steve's shout: "Five-0, let me see your hands! Show me your hands right now!"

Right, not dead. Get to work, Williams.

Danny opens his door with no problem—no impact on this side of the car—and jumps out, gun leveled at the truck. The suspect's airbags deployed. Steve pulls him, slightly stunned, out of his truck. Throws him to the ground and cuffs him as a few HPD sirens drift down the alley from a shrinking distance.

"Christopher Davis, you're under arrest for the murder of Kelly Davis and Jonathan Staples," Steve says and hauls him back to his feet.

Time speeds up after that, compared to the elongated seconds before the collision. Irrelevant details sharpen, like the knee prints the suspect leaves in the dirt, the scent of wintergreen gum he's still chewing. Steve turns him—and the scene itself—over to HPD. A forensic team will process Davis's truck, his transportation for at least one of the bodies if Five-0's theories are correct.

Danny circles the Camaro in search of damage and finds the left rear bumper destroyed. He walks up to his partner in search of damage and finds Steve unscathed but a bit wide-eyed.

"Hey," Danny says. Hey? No, not hey. He should be angry. He _is_ angry. "What was that?"

"What?"

Steve's gaze roams the scene as if Danny's not worth eye contact. Heat washes down Danny's arms, up his neck into his face.

"You know what. That little one-eighty spin, that's what. I've never thought you had an actual, literal death wish, Steve; I thought, you know, death is one of those things that doesn't enter into your decision-making process at all, but if I'm wrong and there's really something wrong with you then the least you could have done is tell me about it the day you coerced me into working with—"

Steve's right hand flicks up, palm open, gloved in black with the pointer finger and thumb free. The visible fingers are the ones that give away the shaking.

"Will you shut up please?"

The _please_ should clue him in, but to what exactly? It doesn't matter. "No, I will not shut up. You angled that car deliberately, Steven, and I'm—"

"Stop."

The volume of the word isn't what silences him. Steve's face does that: not a death glare (Danny's been immune to those from day one) but something starker.

"The scene's secure. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Steve turns away and breaks into a jog. And Danny gets it. And doesn't get it. Only one thing to do when Steve is being totally Steve and totally not Steve. Danny pursues his partner.

Steve right-angles his way to a main street with a sidewalk and sets out at a brisk pace. A tenth of a mile later, Danny catches up. Steve gives him a sideways glare but otherwise ignores him. It's an open path, no palm tree fronds overhead to filter the sun. Soon Danny's sweating in his tac vest. Steve slows after maybe a mile, and by now Danny's knee has started protesting the impact on concrete. After a block of fast-walking, Steve stops, turns to him.

"What are you doing?"

Danny throws his hands out from his sides. "Keeping you in sight, I guess."

Another glare. "Yeah, I got that. Why?"

"Because you're doing your thing, you know, the adrenaline-comedown thing, so …"

"Right. It's an established thing. Which I do alone."

"Yeah, I know."

He tries to shrug. The problem is, Steve's words are true. For all that Danny hassles him, he also trusts him (never let it be said) or he wouldn't work with him. He's seen the evidence hundreds of times: Steve's relationship with adrenaline is intimate. He knows how to use it, how far it will take him, and how to deal with the crash afterward. He might even know how to trigger fight-or-flight in his own body; impossible, yeah, but Danny's not convinced _impossible_ is applicable to Steve McGarrett.

Something about this is different, though. Danny pushes past his own pounding heart and his mental voice that's still yelping in surprise because he isn't smashed inside his Camaro right now. He studies Steve: the measured breathing, the fisted hands, the rocking from one foot to another. He'd still be jogging if Danny hadn't followed him, or if Danny had two good knees.

Steve returns his gaze with defiance. "What."

"What set you off?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Lying to me at this point in our partnership is just an insult. You know that, right? I read you like a book, pal, and you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Steve shakes his head and starts walking back the way they came.

"You're an idiot," Danny says.

"Yeah, yeah."

"And if you're not going to talk, I am."

"Or we could walk in companionable silence."

"You're going to explain to me what you were thinking when you placed yourself squarely in the path of death."

"I'm quoting that back to you the next time you tell me you're not a dramatic person."

"No, no you don't, this is not the time, man. I mean it. If you need to be talking to somebody, then we're going to make sure you talk to somebody. We're not going to pretend that didn't happen. Got it?"

Steve presses his fingers to his eyes in a mock gesture of _your noise is hurting my head_ , but the hand is shaking hard. He clenches it too late.

"Hey." Danny steps in front of him and plants his hands on Steve's shoulders. "Steve. Steven. Look at me."

It takes a few long seconds for his partner to meet his eyes. When he does, the belligerence has mostly faded.

"Did you turn the wheel on purpose?" As if he could have done such a thing accidentally, but baby-step admissions are how Steve operates.

"I … yeah, I guess so. Okay?"

"It's the furthest thing from okay, babe."

"I don't have a death wish."

"Then what—?"

"I was driving."

"You say that like it's a new thing."

Steve steps back, half-turns to face the street. His profile is marble-hard. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he grits his teeth.

And Danny waits.

"Controlling a scenario makes me responsible for the outcome of the scenario. And permanent injury or death is not an acceptable outcome if there's something I can do to effect a different outcome."

"Permanent injury or death is exactly what could have happened to you!"

Wait … a minute.

Danny folds his arms. "You have got to be kidding me."

"You're a father, Danno, you have to go home. Every time."

He scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair, stares at Steve and can't blink or move.

A smile tips one side of Steve's mouth as he turns. "We should memorialize this moment. That One Time Danny Williams Was Speechless."

"Steve …"

"Look, it wasn't trading my life for yours, okay? Head-on impact would have killed both of us. I was halving the casualties."

"And all that went through your mind in less than two seconds."

"Nah." Steve starts walking again, and Danny falls in beside him, shoving hands into his pockets because he might be shaking a little too now. Thanks, partner. "We've talked about this. I don't process details that could compromise me, not when immediate decisions have to be made in an operation."

Yeah, they've talked about it all right. Details like his own broken bones and bullet wounds, the risk of further damage, sometimes even the potential danger to others around him. A commanding officer has to be willing to risk his soldiers; early in his days as Five-0's commander, Steve retrained his way of viewing the people he works with. But in moments of high danger and high adrenaline, his military mindset often keeps them alive.

And his reactions are immediate.

"I'm not buying it," Danny says after half a minute. "You were thinking about me, about my safety. And I haven't decided yet whether to say thanks or kick you."

"It was subconscious, Danny. I don't have to remind myself of it because it's a variable I've already factored into situations. Before they arise."

"That is …"

That is the reason for Steve's adrenaline spike. He didn't see his own life flash before his eyes the moment before he jerked the wheel. He saw Danny's.

"Look, buddy, you … I mean, your life is …"

Steve rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. I don't think my life is worthless, okay? If I get killed, Mary will miss me. The team will miss me. Even you will eventually, Danno."

Danny swallows hard with no idea why his throat is tight. Maybe because he has actual feelings, unlike the guy walking next to him. But the anti-McGarrett record-loop in his head sounds scratchy right now. False.

They jogged farther than Danny thought. They're still a fair distance away. Steve's next step scuffs against the concrete, not stumbling but dragging. It doesn't happen again, but after a few more steps Danny puts a hand on his shoulder and nudges him toward a bench, painted red and bolted into a cement slab to one side of the walk.

They sit, shoulder to shoulder. Silent.

"You did turn the wheel far enough to save yourself too," Danny finally says.

"Well, the optimal outcome was survival of all parties."

Danny shakes his head. The guy's never going to change.

Steve deepens his breathing and closes his eyes. He sits like that for only half a minute or so, but it's long enough for Danny to feel the trust behind it. One thing to let a guy have your back when you're heading into a situation at full strength. Something else to sit exposed on a street corner, spent and shaking, and shut your eyes. Danny's betting this isn't part of Steve's comedown routine when he's in public alone.

He opens his eyes and gets to his feet, steady now. "So, are we done with the psychoanalysis?"

Danny huffs and stands too, his knee griping but quietly. "I still think you need counseling."

"I explained to you—"

"Not for today, moron, for everything else you do to yourself and to me on a daily basis."

An eye roll. Danny's not worth further words.

But maybe, as they arrive on the scene—Danny's fender-bent Camaro and the rotating red and blue lights that are an intrinsic part of their world—maybe more words would only depreciate the moment. When Steve claps a hand on his shoulder and moves away to take command again, Danny lets him, shakes his head, and smiles.


	3. Democracy

A/N: I wanted to play with a dialogue-only fic, and one of the textbook symptoms of an adrenaline comedown is irritability. From those two seeds, I ended up with this.

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3\. Democracy

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"You know I'm going to vote for Chinese. I always vote for Chinese. I mean, unless you want to get pizza from the one place on this island that makes decent pizza."

"If those are the options, I'm going with Chinese. Hey, Chin, what do you say?"

"Chinese works for me."

"The _ayes_ have it. Chinese it is."

"You didn't get McGarrett's vote."

"He's outvoted anyway."

"Hey, yeah, he's outvoted anyway. Take that, Steven."

* * *

"Hey, boss. Chinese, ordering in, what do you want?"

"What?"

"We're getting dinner to see us through the paperwork piles. Chinese."

"We should get pizza."

"Too late. The vote was unanimous."

"Not if I vote for pizza."

"Okay, the vote is three to one in favor of Chinese."

"I can't eat MSG, Kono."

"Danny mentioned that. He found a place with non-MSG options. See, here's the menu—this whole section is—"

"No."

"… No, what?"

"No, I don't want Chinese."

"Well, that's what we're getting."

"Fine."

"Um, fine?"

"I'm not that hungry anyway, and I'm busy. Go on, get what you want."

* * *

"Go ahead and phone it in, cuz."

"Did you get McGarrett's order?"

"He said he's not hungry."

"He's not—okay, that's literally impossible, because I know for a fact he skipped lunch to interview the victim's family and then we got stuck in that traffic backup, and he has a metabolism like a two-hundred-pound hummingbird."

"Thanks, Danny. I'll never see Steve McGarrett the same way again."

"Look, all I know is, he told me he didn't want anything."

"Didn't want anything? Or didn't want Chinese?"

"Well, both, when I made it clear we weren't ordering pizza."

"The jerk. Let him sit in there listening to his stomach growl then."

* * *

"He still hasn't come out."

"Do I look like I care? No? That would be because I don't. Here, try some of this, it's delicious."

"I just think he should eat something."

"Kono, listen to me, okay? Super-SEAL has a deep and abiding love for protein. Soon protein will draw him out of his office with her siren song, and he will come over here and eat."

"I got an order without MSG, just in case."

"Well, that was more kindness than he deserves at the moment. In a little while, he'll appreciate it."

"I think he's upset with me."

"And you're worried?"

"No, I'm pissed at him for being stupid."

"Ah. Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, but he's not upset with you."

"What's his problem then?"

"Long day, no lunch, foot chase for a couple miles in the hottest part of the afternoon, some parkour-wannabe stunts from rooftop to rooftop, and about an hour when we thought that guy had taken an eleven-year-old hostage."

"Oh …"

"Yeah."

"I didn't notice his hands shaking."

"Did you actually see his hands when you went into his office?"

"Ah, no. He had a file, was holding it spread open."

"Bingo."

"It's been hours, though. I mean, normally he's leveled out by now."

"Normally he's eaten something. But he's okay, just, you know, post-adrenaline peevish."

"About _dinner_?"

"Well, he's a control freak and we denied him pizza."

"Hm. Solid points."

"I make them all the time."

* * *

"Hey, guys."

"Hey, boss."

"I … uh, is there … anything left?"

"I put yours in the fridge. MSG-free, broccoli chicken and brown rice."

"Oh. Really?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Kono. Look, I … I snapped. Earlier."

"Yes, you did."

"And you got me food anyway?"

"You looked hungry."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"Hey … this is pretty good."


	4. Rest

A/N: It looks like this entire collection is going to be told from points of view other than Steve's, which I didn't know would happen when I started writing. Maybe he'll have something to say later. I have two more to post, and then I might be finished. We shall see if more ideas come to me. I'm having a great time writing dialogue for Steve and Danny, and I like the challenge of getting voices right for characters I didn't create. If other scenarios for this prompt germinate in my mind, I'll likely keep going.

Many thanks for each and every review! It's fun to see what readers think of my scribbling, and which moments you like the most.

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4\. Rest

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Chin's knowledge of the current situation can be summed up numerically. Number of hours it took to close the case after the governor handed it to Five-0: sixty-seven. Number of hours his boss and friend has spent awake: seventy-one. Number of stitches needed to close the split in McGarrett's forehead, which he acquired during the takedown of their latest homicide suspect: eleven.

"Drinks," Kono announces to the room just after seven, the evening they get to file another case closed. "Immediately."

"I may never have heard more beautiful words than these." Danny angles a look toward McGarrett's office. "And I'm not above leaving without him if he doesn't finish, like, now."

The boss is on the phone—yes, with the governor—wrapping up last details, last technicalities. Pacing, gesturing with his free hand. His actions hold as much energy as they did three days ago. The giveaway is the circles under his eyes—dusky yesterday, bruised blue today.

"Guys," Chin says.

Danny frowns. "Whatever you're about to say, it isn't conducive to the night I'm currently visualizing."

Chin tips his head toward Steve's pacing form. "I think this is one of those closes that should be celebrated at Casa McGarrett."

"Wait a minute." Kono's studying him now, not bothering to be subtle, but he doesn't look in their direction. "He hasn't gone home …"

"Since we got this case," Chin says.

"Crap." Danny shakes his head. "You're right. He must have gone through every clean shirt in his office by now."

You'd think a SEAL would be trained to sleep anywhere, and Steve probably is, but it's not one of his habits. He doesn't catch naps—not in his office, not in his car, not anywhere. He allows himself to sleep in one location only: home. And like everything else, when Steve McGarrett sleeps, he puts one hundred fifty percent of himself into the task. Chin has wondered if he's subconsciously reclaiming a life of relative safety after his time in the service. Maybe, now that his body no longer has to be prepared at all times, hearing and sensing danger before he even awakes, something inside him has latched onto slumber as a rest that's deeper than physical.

"Why is he still coherent?" Danny's question is more of a grumble.

Chin shrugs. "My guess is he won't be for long."

"I should have noticed."

"You've been preoccupied."

Danny gives a snort. "That's one word for it. Another word is _harangued by the least reasonable ex alive_. And yes, that was one word. Hyphenated." He sighs and returns his attention to Steve. "How does he manage to ruin daily life so spectacularly? Crashing the party before it even starts. It's like he plans these things."

Kono laughs.

At this point, Chin's worn down enough that a random movie on TV sounds at least as enjoyable as drinks on the town. And after a long case, Kono tends to be the first of all of them to prefer quiet, finding a less populated beach to surf and unwind. Danny will be the holdout; Chin looks to him.

"So, consensus?"

Danny raises his hand as if they're taking classroom attendance. "Yeah, sure. But we're not bringing the beer. We're raiding his fridge."

"You're what?" Steve strides into the room, hands on his hips.

"We've taken a vote," Chin says.

"A vote to drink my beer?"

"Come on, boss. Nobody wants to go out tonight. We're beat." Kono doesn't crack a smile. "Ohana night at your place."

Steve eyes them each in turn, first Kono, then Danny …

Chin meets his gaze without blinking, and something flickers behind McGarrett's eyes. It's faint, submerged under layers of strain and fatigue. It might be amusement.

"Fine," Steve says to all of them. "I will offer up my stock of alcohol for the benefit of the team."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, Danny, I'm not kidding. And stop acting like I've never made a personal sacrifice in the name of ohana before."

"The last time I filched from your fridge, you threatened to break my hand."

"I did not threaten anything. I reminded you I have close combat training that includes breaking certain bones in a single move."

"Those bones being my fingers as they curled around the beer can."

"That was your inference."

They walk together, two-by-two, down the hall toward the exit. Danny and Steve match each other's pace ahead of Chin and Kono, who share smirks and eye rolls all the way to the vehicles.

Hours later, they're sprawled in the boss's living room. A few empty cans sit on a low table. Danny commandeers the TV remote and finds _Quantum of Solace_ as it's starting, which ignites a debate on the best and worst Bond movies, the best and worst Bonds, and the best and worst Bond girls. During that last, Kono snatches up a throw pillow and chucks it at each of them in turn. Halfway through the film, Chin looks across to the loveseat, which Steve claimed the minute they got here. He's been silent for the last ten minutes.

Chin gives a chuckle. "Guys."

Kono follows his gaze and grins. "Danny, check out our fearless leader."

Steve is half-curled, the loveseat not long enough for his legs, his head propped on one of the arm rests. His arms are hugging the other throw pillow to his chest. The dim TV light casts the black stitches across his head more starkly, and his shadowed eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm of peace.

"Oh, for crying out loud." Danny stands and sets the remote aside. "We leave him like that, he'll wake up with a crick in his neck and gripe about it for a day."

He crosses the room and bumps Steve's shoulder. "Hey, Steve."

The man doesn't stir.

Kono shakes her head. "When he crashes, he really crashes."

"Hey." Danny jostles him again. "Steven. You can't spend the night twisted up like a pretzel."

"Unh." Steve shoves Danny's hand away. "Tired, Danno."

Danny crouches in front of him. "Right. Because you're an idiot who just stayed awake for three days. Come on, get up and go to bed."

"No."

Chin holds in a smile as he moves the few steps across to the loveseat and stands over them both. "Come on, McGarrett, on your feet."

He infuses his voice with enough steel to rouse the soldier in Steve's subconscious. Steve's arms tighten around the pillow, but he opens his eyes, then stretches his legs and sets his feet on the floor.

"'Kay." He blinks at Kono. "Hi."

She laughs. "Go on to sleep, boss. We'll finish the movie and see ourselves out."

"Yeah, okay."

He stands and sways, and Chin braces an arm around his shoulders. Chin waves Danny off and walks Steve into the bedroom, lowers him to the bed in his clothes, finds a stray blanket in an abandoned puddle on a chair. He tosses the blanket over Steve, whose eyes have already closed again.

He moves to leave the room, but Steve's voice drifts to him, half-asleep.

"Hey, Chin."

"Yeah, brah."

"Coming here."

"Yeah?"

"Mahalo."

They should never assume he doesn't know what they're up to. Chin smiles into the dark. "Our pleasure, Steve."


	5. Limits

A/N: This is my scenario for a time when adrenaline doesn't keep Steve going as long as he wants it to. It was a challenge to get him to this point in a way that felt true to character. I wanted to do it without causing injury first, but his resilience kept outlasting my ideas. So … here's the fic that resulted, with apologies to Steve, except not really, because it's his own fault I had to shoot him.

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5\. Limits

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"The only way out of here is the way we came in."

"Yeah." Steve turns and starts back to the trail. Right, of course he does. Who needs a moment to regroup after a stupidly long foot chase through the forest and witnessing a suspect pitch over the side of the cliff with a scream that still hasn't faded from Danny's mind yet and, oh yeah, a freaking bullet wound? Not Super-SEAL.

"Come on. It's about six miles to cell service. The longer we take to get forensics up here, the more evidence we could lose, especially if it rains."

"Steven, you are shot."

"Grazed."

"I guess your blood cells don't know the difference. They seem to be escaping as fast as if you were shot."

Steve sets his hands on his hips in that exasperating pose that indicates no force on earth shall move him. He stands still a moment before turning back to Danny. The stain on his left side has spread in the last minute, soaking into the gray T-shirt around the bullet's torn path.

"There's gauze and tape in my pack." He shrugs out of the backpack and digs through it. "We'll patch me up and head out."

Steve stands still just long enough for Danny to press layers of gauze against the two-inch slash along his middle ribs. He tears white medical tape from a spool and hands it off, and Danny tries to stretch it tight, apply pressure. The procedure takes a few minutes, and then Steve tugs his shirt back down, white gauze now peeking through the rip.

"Okay." He re-hoists his pack. "Let's get out of here."

The wound isn't life-threatening. Steve's color is good, which for him is a better health indicator than his indefatigable energy level. Danny nods but must fail to hide his misgiving, because Steve sighs.

"Danny, look. Once we call this in, we'll wait around for a chopper if it proves necessary. But I can walk at least that far with a flesh wound. Okay?"

It's barely noon. The sky above them is the sky of postcards, not a cloud to shield them from heat that will only intensify in the next few hours. They won't be walking six miles along a paved nature trail. They'll be hiking over untamed natural beauty, including a lot of inclines.

"No," Danny says, "it's not okay. But we have to get out of here one way or another."

Steve thrusts out an open hand of conciliation. "Exactly."

"You could wait here with the body."

Instant scowl. "Do I suddenly look feeble to you?"

"Not this minute, no, but we chased the guy for quite a while after he _grazed_ you, and you've lost blood."

Steve glances down at his side. "Not much."

If that's _not much_ to him, Danny doesn't want to know his untold war stories. But there are risks to leaving him here, too. No, the sky doesn't look eager for a storm, but they can roll in from nowhere. Steve could be surprised by a landslide and washed down the cliff, buried beside the suspect's corpse.

"Okay," Danny says.

Steve arches his eyebrows. "No diatribe, huh?"

"Well, you give in to common sense with about the same rate of recurrence as a comet's path bringing it into view of earth, which means today is probably not that day. Then again …" Danny shrugs as if the motion can minimize what he's about to admit. "If you think you can hike out of here, you probably can."

"That's right," Steve says, but there's no smirk behind it, only fact.

They set out. Lush greenery and humidity surround them, along with a rich smell that's almost a texture in the air or a taste, a sensory experience Danny never knew before moving here.

"If you're about to keel over, will you at least warn me first?"

"Sure."

They hike in silence, Steve taking point, Danny watching their flank, though they're not likely to run into another person out here. The path, such as it is, begins to climb. They enjoyed enough downhill ranging on the way inland that Danny expected the return trek to be harder, but this is steeper than he prepared for.

An hour later, his knee hates him.

"Steve."

Ahead, his partner grunts in response and doesn't slow down. Great. Rambo with his bullet graze is holding up better than Danny with his old-man ACL.

"I need a minute, buddy. Knee's not going to make it another mile."

"Keep moving."

It's Steve's military voice, single-task and withdrawn. Danny could deck him right now. "We need to take a break."

"It's not far."

"Listen, G.I. Jerk, it's at least another two miles uphill, through dense foliage under the beating sun. I'm sorry we can't all be Superman, but I need a break."

No response. Danny blinks at the stubborn figure in front of him, wipes sweat away from his eyes. He's been more focused on the terrain and the possibility of hostile company than on his partner, but there's nothing to watch out for. Steve's pace isn't flagging. His stride isn't wavering.

"Stop," Danny says.

Not even a pause.

Danny outpaces him, gets in front of him, and a finger of cold traces down his neck. Steve's face is as gray as his shirt, and the white gauze is bright red.

"Oh," leaks from Danny's lips. "Okay, stop, Steve, just stop."

"Not now."

"You need to stop."

Steve looks down at his side and frowns.

Danny plants a hand on his shoulder and pushes him toward the thick trunk of a tree that's spreading more shade than the others. In five steps, Steve slips from a forward march to a stumble.

"You moron." Steve wanted a diatribe; he's going to get one. "You liar, you idiot, you absolute utter moron. What is going through your head right now, huh? Is there some super-SEAL mantra that drowns out the input of your own body? Or do you literally not feel inconvenient things like pain and weakness and—"

"Danno." Steve reaches a hand out and braces against the tree.

"This is not the time to _Danno_ me, let me make that perfectly clear."

"Need a minute."

"What you need is therapy."

Steve folds to his knees and leans against the tree, and Danny crouches beside him and makes assessment. Pallor, sweating, shaking. Some of that is blood loss coupled with exertion, but the shaking …

Danny sighs. "You're crashing."

"Think so." Steve's words are tired but clear, no slurring. A good sign. "Thought if I could push through it … delay it, you know? Till we got out of here."

"Right." It actually makes a twisted sort of sense.

Steve sheds his backpack and tugs it onto his knees, the motion heavy.

"Here, give me that." Danny takes the pack. "Tell me what you need."

"Water."

Oh. Right. Danny retrieves Steve's water bottle and hands it to him, a test. Steve is able to lift it to his mouth without effort, and Danny's pulse settles.

"You too." Steve nods toward Danny's backpack. "Stay hydrated."

For a minute they're both quiet, sipping water and catching their breath. Danny sits on his backside, stretches his legs while keeping the bad knee half-bent, and the ache fades to a whisper of discomfort.

"Well, I'm sorry, pal, but it looks like not even you can prevent an adrenaline crash with sheer willpower."

Steve huffs. "I was fine earlier."

"Didn't count on getting shot."

"Not something I count on."

"You should. You really should. Daily expectations: four thousand Calories, eighty-five liters of water, ten miles before six in the morning, downtime for wounds and injuries."

Steve leans his head back against the tree. "Eighty-five liters?"

"Whatever."

He sits forward again. Faint tremors still grip his legs, though he's steady otherwise. He looks away, and one hand clenches.

Not okay and frustrated by it. Probably shamed too, in some submerged part of himself that he'd rather face tiger sharks than talk about, the voice in his head that demands he be one hundred percent capable one hundred percent of the time. Danny sighs. Years of working together—no, years of knowing each other, of life-and-death stakes and boring stakeouts, of silence and conversation—have revealed one of the best-kept secrets about Steve McGarrett.

The man _is_ predictable.

Like now. Pushing to his feet, wobbling like a toddler who's just lost his grip on the coffee table.

"What are you doing?" The words are more annoyed than Danny intended.

"We can't stay here."

"Can you make it another two miles?"

"Can you?"

"I'm not the one currently turning gauze red."

Steve sighs, takes one step, and reaches out to brace against the tree. "I …"

The dangling sentence is like a shift in the breeze. Steve doesn't do half-finishes, including speaking his thoughts.

"You what, Steve?"

"No. I can't make it."

The tightness of his mouth, the aversion of his gaze from Danny's, hint at the price of the confession.

"Okay," Danny says.

Steve looks around at the forest and seems to draw himself back from somewhere. He presses a hand to his side and grimaces, but his eyes continue to roam his surroundings. He's only standing still because he doesn't have the energy to do anything else.

"We don't have time for this," he says. "There's evidence degrading, and … and why aren't you overreacting?"

"Well." Danny surges to his feet, letting himself favor the knee for a minute, because in another minute he won't be able to. "I could point out that this is the tradeoff for super-SEAL adrenaline: you also get to deal with super-SEAL crashing and exhaustion. I could also point out that this doesn't happen to me. Why? Because I don't abuse my body."

"I don't—"

"You're right, not your whole body. Just your adrenal system. Your adrenaline's probably going to burn out entirely by the time you're fifty."

"Oh, shut up, Danny." Steve sinks back to the ground and props himself up against the tree. And … sits there.

Okay, forget predictable.

"What … are you … doing?" Danny's hands windmill in front of him. "You're just going to relax?"

"For a minute."

"Seriously? You just said we don't have time."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You know what? I can't win with you. It's impossible."

"What are you talking—?"

"Now that you've finished predicting my dilapidation by the age of fifty, aren't you going to tell me that limits make me human? That even though I act like it only about fifteen percent of the time, I _am_ a human being and that's perfectly okay?"

Um. Danny shifts on his feet, getting the knee used to full weight again. "Okay, listen—"

"So I give in to my fallibility for a second and now you want to rant about that instead."

"I'm not …" Oh. Danny props his hands on his hips and faces Steve down. The master of deflection almost pulled it off. "You can't even stay on your feet right now. And this is a subterfuge to keep me from noticing."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Idiot."

Steve sighs. "See? You can be succinct."

"It's the shock of discovering that you _do_ listen to me."

Steve stretches his legs in front of him, then pulls his knees up again. Testing muscles, probably. "Don't count on it."

"No, you gave yourself away, pal. You quoted me back to me. Which means you hear me when I'm talking. Plausible deniability has been ruined forever."

With an eye roll, Steve pushes himself up. He's no steadier, but he remains standing, defying Danny's earlier statement although he agreed with it a minute ago. Idiot. Except he's right. They have to move.

Danny steps up beside him and holds out his arm. "All right, let's get out of here."

"What're you planning to do, carry me?"

"Not a chance. We're going to be each other's crutch."

Steve cocks his head. "Like a three-legged race?"

"Minus the race part."

"And the three-legged part."

"Bingo."

They drape an arm over the other's shoulders, Steve wobbling as he tries to adjust to Danny's height, Danny wincing as he tries both to support Steve and give Steve some of the weight on his knee. Their first steps are embarrassing.

"Wait. Hold up. Okay, forget this idea, it was stupid, we'll never make it."

"Sure we will," Steve says.

Yeah, right, sure they will.

But they will, even though they're both slightly wrecked at the moment, because, well, they don't have other options. And because every time one of them starts to fall, the other somehow makes up the needed support. Soon they've achieved a passable rhythm. The incline aids their balance; downhill they'd probably pitch onto their faces. This is one predicament Chin and Kono will never hear about.

"I'll try to level out."

"Why don't you just try not to pass out or bleed out?"

"Danny?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up."


	6. Catharsis

A/N: This one ended up longer than I expected, and the characters surprised me several times. It turned out a tinge darker than the other pieces in this collection. It is my favorite, and my final installment as I have to focus on my own writing again. With this piece, I realized my first five are comparatively only skating on the surface of the staunch friendship between these two characters. This one plumbs deeper, which is why I like it best.

Thanks again to every reviewer! Your encouragement made this jaunt into fanfic really fun; I think I grinned every time I got a new review notification. I wish I could immediately start a one-shot friendship collection for Steve and Danny, but maybe I will get to sometime in the future … stay tuned. ;)

Warning: rated T for mentions of suicide.

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6\. Catharsis

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There's never been a case like this one.

A case they wanted to be homicide.

A case that might have broken their commander, because it wasn't.

Each of them—Chin, Kono, Lou, even Max—has come to Danny in the last two days since the case was closed. They ask him to do something. Each time, he asks _what?_ Each time, they confess they don't know. But there has to be something. And McGarrett is his partner. And McGarrett has shut out everyone else. Everyone.

Danny tries to explain he's been shut out too.

"Please, maybe if you try again," Kono says.

"If you can't get through to him, nobody can," Lou says.

And Chin is the worst. "The solitude isn't him coping, Danny. McGarrett isolated is McGarrett _not_ coping."

Those are the words that convince Danny to try again. To push aside his frustration and, okay, call him sensitive, maybe some hurt. How many years have they been partners? How many cases, horrific and tragic and everything in between, have they weathered? To say nothing of personal crises faced together, instances of saving the other's life (Danny keeps count of those, too, not just the times Steve takes risks). This case shouldn't have snapped all the threads of their partnership like a hand tearing down a spider web.

Because nothing should be able to do that.

He drives out to Steve's. Doesn't knock. The last two times he did, Steve didn't answer anyway. This time, instead of driving off cussing at the jerk on the other side of the door, Danny lets himself inside. The place is military-pristine. And empty.

He looks out the big glass doors onto the lanai, and there's Steve. Shirtless, though the sun is half-down and the beach chills this time of day. Danny edges closer without going outside. Steve's barefoot, wearing swim shorts, sitting in one of the chairs that face the ocean. Motionless.

Danny slides open the door and steps out. No way Steve doesn't hear him coming. He's less than ten feet away when Steve's voice drifts to him, a flatline of syllables that could be coming from a robot.

"Go home."

Danny stays back, stands over Steve's shoulder and a few feet out of reach. Not that he expects to get slugged or anything.

"I'd really like to, believe me, but this has gone on too long, and I have no idea why I'm here, but staying away isn't the thing to do."

"It is."

"Not with you." Chin's right. Danny knew it before, but Chin's words broke past his frustration to remind him. "Not with you, buddy. As long as you're alone, you're going to be stuck in this place, in your head. So I'm not leaving."

"I could say please." Still no inflection in the words.

"Then I'd say no thanks."

"I could neutralize you."

Danny goes still as everything inside him boils over. His jaw clenches so hard, grating out the next words takes effort. "I'm going to assume you mean knock me out, not kill me with your bare hands. And yeah. You could. Is that preferable to company right now?"

No answer.

The frosty silence shouldn't give Danny hope, but there's possibility in it. If Steve knew the answer was _yes_ , he'd say so. The quiet remains, somehow existing in its own layer beside the crash of waves. Danny has to be the one to break it.

But this is no time to throw a lot of syllables at the man and hope some of them get through. Until Danny knows what to say, he shouldn't say anything. He steps over to the chair beside Steve and sits. Steve doesn't look at him.

For an hour, Steve doesn't look at him.

And then he does.

Danny's drifting in his own head by then. Berating himself for his obvious failure here. Wanting to break down the wall around Steve, if he could figure out what it's made of. After a time, his thoughts move to his daughter, wondering what she's up to right now. While he stares out at a gull bobbing up and down on the waves, his peripheral vision catches Steve's first movement: a slow fisting of his right hand, as if he's testing the strength of the limb.

"You're not leaving, are you."

Danny snorts. "What was your first clue?"

"You not leaving."

The words are too flat for sarcasm. Danny turns in the chair to face Steve and takes a long breath. The floodlights from the house reveal shadows under Steve's eyes, a grimace that's probably a headache, two-day stubble on his jaw, and dried salt in his hair. The guy needs a shower.

Not the ideal lead-in for this conversation.

"Steve …"

He blinks. His Adam's apple dips. Okay, maybe they're getting somewhere demolishing the wall, but it's going to take a chisel, not a steamroller.

"Can we go inside? It's cold out here."

Steve doesn't respond, so that wasn't the right beginning either.

"You can't do this forever," Danny says.

"I know."

"Okay. Good." Enough treating him like thin ice. It's not accomplishing anything. Danny pushes his thumbs into his eyes. "Steven, what are you doing? Is this some kind of mission in your head? What's the objective?"

Steve turns his head, and something in his expression has changed. A sharper gaze, but more than that, a desperation he was hiding before.

"It's time to talk, buddy. And you're right. If it takes all night for us to sort this out, so be it, but I'm not leaving."

A deep breath rises in Steve's chest and is held there before he releases it. He opens his curled hand and shifts in the chair. He stares out at the ocean, but he isn't shoving silence at Danny and hoping it sends him away. Instead he seems to be fighting the silence along with Danny.

He meets Danny's eyes again. "The objective is a reset."

Danny nods as if this makes sense. "Okay. What are we resetting?"

"Me."

Another nod, but now Danny's just lost, trying to push down a tide of concern before it washes over his face. "Keep going."

"Sometimes …" Steve sighs. "You know the adrenaline thing you rag me about?"

" _Rag_ is a strong word, but yeah."

"Sometimes I get stuck there. After the stressors are dealt with, the fade—crash, whatever you want to call it—doesn't happen. I just stay there." He scrubs a palm over the top of his head. "Here."

"Okay." He's still missing pieces to the puzzle, so he waits again.

Steve shrugs. "It's kind of like … okay, an iPod that's glitching and freezes up? And won't restart, even when you press the right button combination, so the only thing to do is wait for the batteries to run out of juice."

"And you're the iPod."

"I need to run myself down until there's nothing left. Then I can reset."

"So what are you doing out here?"

"Swimming. Between breaks, for safety, but then I go out again, keep going out."

"And during the breaks, do you eat? Drink? Sleep?"

He nods at an industrial-sized water bottle sitting in the sand at his feet. "I stay hydrated, obviously. Or I could damage my body. But food is fuel and the point is to run out of fuel."

"And sleep?"

"I won't be able to sleep until I'm reset."

"Steve."

"I'm telling you how it is. So you get it. So you don't tell me not to go back out there. I …" He rubs his eyes. "I _want_ to sleep, Danny. But my body isn't in a place to let me."

"And how do you know when you get there? You nod off in the chair and wake up a day later?"

"Something like that."

"No. I want details if you expect me to go along with this crazy, stupid, dangerous plan of swimming until you …" He gets to his feet and plants himself in front of Steve. In the way and not moving. "Until you fall over. That's it, isn't it. Literally forcing your body to give out."

Steve runs a hand over his face. "Nothing else has ever worked."

"Well, we're going to create a new plan. Right now. New objective: sleep by choice, not by collapse."

Steve shakes his head as if Danny's determination is a thing to be tolerated, and Danny almost takes the bait, almost rants and flails his way off topic. But that's not going to help Steve.

"Come on, Mr. Naval Intelligence. Let's crack the code. Solve the equation."

"The equation? Length of exposure to stressor plus absence of acceptable outcome equals physical state previously described." Steve rolls his eyes as if he hasn't just given everything away.

Given himself away.

"And when did you last find yourself in this state?" Danny schools his expression to that of a detective compiling facts and tries to keep significance out of the question.

Steve steps around him, walks out onto the beach. The line of his shoulders is rigid.

This night is going to earn Danny the status of World's Most Patient Partner. He crosses his arms and joins Steve, stands shoulder to shoulder with him and stares out at the inky horizon and the depthless expanse of water. He shivers. Steve should be shivering too, but he's still as a sculpture, only his hair ruffled by the wind.

"The last time …" Steve's eyes close.

Danny's had his share of sleepless nights, but the exhaustion cloaking Steve's frame is something different. It's like a field of energy, humming with the need to rest even as it keeps him wired and awake. Eyes shut, yet his stance is coiled for action.

"Come on, Steve. When was it?"

"The day I shot Hesse. When he went into the water, and we thought he was dead."

Stressor: his dad's murder. Length of exposure: days as they tried to figure out what had happened. Outcome: his father still dead. And nothing left to distract him from the loss.

"You went home that night and swam until you collapsed?"

"Affirmative."

They'd barely known each other. Partners for days, not years. Danny hating every syllable that came out of Steve's mouth, every arrogant glare and careless grin, with no idea this guy whose back was now his to watch went home and grappled with grief alone, so incapable of emotional coping he drove himself to physical breakdown instead.

"Okay." Danny presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. "You're missing a variable in your equation."

Steve opens his eyes to stare at him, challenge and expectation warring on his face. This might be the first time Danny has ever seen Steve McGarrett _wanting_ to be wrong. Wanting Danny to know something he doesn't. Danny squeezes his shoulder, half reassurance and half to check—yeah, Steve is cold. Really cold.

"I'm not discussing anything else out here," Danny says. "Come on inside."

Steve looks toward the ocean a long moment. His mouth crimps downward. That's not stubbornness. Maybe … He forces his feet to turn toward the house, but Danny grips his shoulder again.

"Are you going to be straight with me?" Danny says.

Steve nods.

"When you're worked up like this, being near the water helps you somehow, fortifies you or something. Am I on the right track here?"

Steve's eyebrows lift as he nods this time.

"Yeah, I see you every day of my life, pal, and that's barely an exaggeration. I know you well enough to make educated guesses."

Another nod, and now the deep breath seems to be accepting something rather than pulling away from it. "The sounds, and the breadth of it, and … I guess just that it's there, you know? It's been there my whole life."

Unlike other things in his life. Like parents.

Yeah, this is all making more and more sense.

"Fine then," Danny says, "but if we're going to stay out here communing with the spirit of Hawaii, we're going to stay warm."

Before Steve can protest that SEALs don't get cold as a matter of honor, Danny marches up to the house and grabs two blankets from the living room. He also grabs a gray pullover hoodie tossed over a kitchen chair. Back on the beach, he hands the hoodie to Steve.

"Put that on and don't argue with me."

Steve's mouth twitches as he obeys. He wraps in one blanket, and Danny burrows into the other, tucking his hands into the folds and drawing his knees up as he reclaims his seat. After a few seconds, Steve sinks into the other chair, his movements stiff. He's probably worked his muscles past their limits multiple times since he left Five-0 headquarters two days ago.

Danny takes a deep breath of his own and stares out at Steve's ocean. This is not going to be easy.

"Hey, Danno?"

"Yeah."

"What am I missing?"

Or maybe it won't be as hard as he thinks. "In terms of the result and the causes … you've got the factual causes covered."

Steve nods with confidence. Of course he has.

"But you're ignoring the why, Steve. Why do you get stuck on adrenaline only rarely? Why doesn't it happen every time you go flinging yourself over the rooftops or take off running after a bad guy? This case is obviously different."

"It was just a case."

There it is, the signature McGarrett resistance. "And it involved a veteran of the military who didn't get the outcome we wanted."

"We've had cases involving vets before. And active servicemen. I don't see your point."

 _Of course you don't, dimwit_. Danny checks himself barely in time to keep the retort in his head. He sighs. "Steve, this vet wasn't murdered. He ended his own life."

Beside him, Steve's profile turns to stone.

Danny lowers his voice, barely louder than the crashing waves. "No one was there to hear that gunshot. People in his family didn't know he was troubled in the least. And you—you, my friend, gave the news to his kids. Told them that in a deeply lost moment, he made a choice that took him away from them."

"Danny, none of this—"

"It's _all_ relevant, buddy. Every bit of it. The gunshot that killed your dad while he was on the phone with you. Your mom choosing to 'die' to you when you were just a kid. The fact this guy was Navy and that makes him your ohana, the fact he has a nineteen-year-old son. Steve, you know what that boy is feeling right now."

Steve grips the arms of the chair, knuckles standing out with the tension.

And now Danny has to follow it through. Has to make Steve face it.

"The result is being physically stuck here, but the cause is being emotionally stuck here."

"That's nonsense, Danny."

"I know what you've said. The McGarrett legacy, feelings as a weakness, all that." _All that crap_ he wants to say. "But you have to feel it, Steve. Like you didn't do the day you shot Hesse. Or, I'm guessing, the day you buried your dad."

"You think I felt nothing when I lost my father? That's what you think?"

Retorts boil up in Danny, but he swallows them all, lets Steve's defensive anger sweep over him. If he rises to it, the conversation will be over. He keeps his volume at a gentle level and looks away from the water, meets Steve's eyes.

"I think you felt too much, babe. I think you put the feelings into a Navy-issue vault marked _classified_ and lowered that vault into the ground. Right beside your dad."

Steve's entire body recoils and pivots in the chair, putting his back to Danny, as a strangled noise breaks from him.

The last thing Danny expected.

Steve shudders. Pulls a harsh breath. Shakes his head.

Danny reaches across the feet of space between their chairs and grips his friend's shoulder through the blanket. Steve is trembling. "It's okay, buddy. This case messed you up, but you're okay. Just stop fighting yourself, you know? Be honest. This one was tough. Let it be tough for a minute before you move on."

"He lost hope, Danny." The words break.

"Yes, he did. And we couldn't help."

Steve makes a long sound, something between a growl and a sob. He presses his palms to his eyes, and Danny keeps his hand firm on the quaking shoulder.

"You're okay, Steve."

"He's gone, and I can't bring him back."

They're not talking about the case anymore. "I know."

"I can never bring him back."

"No, babe, you can't."

Steve draws a long, catching breath. The tension in every muscle slowly gives, until he's slumped in the chair, and now the shaking is familiar. The curling of his hands is probably habit. Relief rolls over Danny, and he sighs.

Steve lifts his head, and the floodlights reflect in his glossy eyes. He presses a thumb to the side of his nose.

"You really didn't leave."

"What did I tell you?"

Steve pushes himself up, then folds back into the chair. His legs are shaking worse than his hands. He tries again, folds again.

Danny rolls his eyes. "Mission accomplished."

"Reset?" Steve frowns, runs his hand under his eyes though no tears have fallen.

"You didn't need a reset, buddy. You needed a catharsis."

Steve doesn't snort or cross his arms or say a word. His eyes close, and he lists in the chair. Right. To be expected. Danny gets up and puts a hand under his arm.

"Come on. Food first, sleep second."

"Okay."

"Uh, would you mind at least pretending to argue with me?" Danny lifts Steve to his feet and keeps a hand under his elbow as Steve's steps drag toward the house. "I can't deal with a docile version of you, it's just too disturbing. Tell me how SEALs are too tough for food. Or something."

"But I'm starving, Danno."

"Of course you are, because, see, this is what happens when you stop eating."

Steve's weight leans more heavily on him with every few steps. By the time they reach the McGarrett kitchen, Danny has to lower him into a chair. Steve's whole body is taken with the tremors of the adrenaline crash.

"You truly are a mess." Danny shakes his head and scrounges in cabinets. "And you need carbs, but I'm not going to find any, am I?"

"I eat carbs." Steve's voice has faded a bit, but his eyes hold a restored spark. "Oatmeal in the— Oh, wait. I've got some legume pasta. It's good with pesto and mozzarella."

"Legume pasta? That sounds disgusting."

"No, it's good, man. In the pantry, I'll—" His words break off as he tries to stand and nearly pitches to the floor.

"Sit, moron. I'm capable of boiling water."

"So am I."

"When you're capable of standing, I'm sure you are."

Minutes later, Danny has found two boxes of the stuff, made with a single ingredient: green lentils. He shoves a box toward Steve trying for deadpan, but a grin steals onto his face. Maybe because his friend isn't out challenging the dark water, trying to outlast himself.

"Shells?" Danny shakes the box, and the pasta rattles inside.

"Yeah, so?"

"I don't know, I just expected a more serious noodle. You know, fettucine, rotini."

"I like the shells."

"Oh, I get it. An ocean theme."

"What?" Steve shakes his head. "Seriously, Danny, I just like the shells."

Danny shakes the box again and sets about preparing a single serving. In ten minutes, he carries a steaming bowl, topped with melting mozzarella, over to the table. Steve's arms are folded on the table, his head down on his arms.

Danny shakes his shoulder. "Hey. Steve."

He lifts his head, and bleary blue eyes fight to focus. "Hey. I fell asleep."

"I see that. But you need to eat something."

"Tomorrow?"

"No, babe, now."

"Oh." Steve rubs his eyes, and alertness seeps back into him. He smirks at the bowl of cheesy shells. "Expertly done."

"Grace likes her noodles with cheese, too."

"You just compared me to a teenage girl."

"You have shell noodles in your pantry, pal."

Steve is too busy devouring the food to respond. And that's fine, because Danny's suddenly tired. He sits at the table across from his best friend and wonders when they'll face the next ledge, who will be standing on it then. Maybe it will be himself toeing the metaphorical edge of space and, not for the first time, Steve's grip on Danny's collar pulling him down. To safety.


End file.
